


When You See That Storm Approaching

by elithewho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: BDSM, Cousin Incest, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Incest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Daenerys sends her nephew and heir Jon Snow to Winterfell to broker a marriage agreement with the Lady of Winterfell. But Jon finds that the lady who once was his sister is nothing like the girl he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You See That Storm Approaching

When Jon saw the gates of Winterfell at last, he felt like he was fifteen again. There was a sense of homecoming and a great sadness to see the broken towers, yet it was tinged with hope at seeing the rebuilding that was underway. And there was also that old inadequacy, that feeling of being unworthy.

The Lady of Winterfell greeted him in the courtyard. She was much taller than when he’d last seen her and very much like her mother, only young and so much lovelier. Her hair was so red it glowed in the frosty air, a beacon of fire in a grey field. But her face may have been carved from stone. She regarded him with the same air of distrust and resentment and he was even more fiercely reminded of Lady Catelyn.

All the same, Sansa welcomed him with all the outward trappings of a Lady greeting a Lord. But when she curtsied, her head remained still as if she were loath to show him the back of her neck.

Once Jon had changed out of his riding clothes he was greeted with the customary feast. It was not sumptuous, but he could not expect it to be. He felt undeserving of this treatment, to be given so much of their meager stores. But the meat had been frozen and not salted and the beer flowed freely. 

To be there, in that hall, feasting like he had never left; it made his chest ache. And there he sat, at the head of the table beside the Lady of Winterfell. He had resented his place so much as a child. She looked at him now like he was an intruder. And he felt like one.

As a girl, Sansa had mostly treated him with indifference. It had stung a little, not as much as her mother’s cruelty. But now her icy condescension was more palpable than ever. What right did he have, coming here? And to do what had been commanded of him? If Queen Daenerys had not insisted, he would never have come. Not like this.

She was polite and gracious, asking him this and that about King’s Landing and the Queen’s court. About how he found Winterfell after all these years. If he was happy to see it again. He tried to answer truthfully, but her suspicion cut through every question like ice. She did not mention at all the revelation that he was not a bastard and in fact her trueborn cousin, heir to the throne. She knew, of course, she would have received the royal proclamation like every other noble. The truth of it hung in the air between them like a nest of wasps, humming with danger, liable to burst at even the slightest touch.

Jon did not enjoy this sort of courtly intrigue. He could fight wildings, ride dragons, go to war. But it was this that made him so unsettled, so unsure of his footing, like stepping onto a frozen lake, fearful that every step would send him plunging into icy death. He drank more beer. 

“And you intend to marry, of course?” Her question pulled him painfully back to the moment. Her eyes were blue shards of ice. His chest tightened.

“That is the eventual plan,” he replied, smiling, trying to show her that he came in peace. The smile she returned looked more like a sneer.

“No need to be so coy, my lord,” Sansa said in her sweetest voice. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Jon swallowed, willing away the lump in his throat.

“It doesn’t? Well, that’s terrible news for my negotiating skills.”

She didn’t even humor him with a smile. “I know why you’re really here.”

Jon drank a deep draught of beer, swallowing slowly and trying to decide if continuing to be evasive really was in his best interests. As much he didn’t want to confront her, he sensed that the time to dance around the subject was over. 

“I know that you were not happy to bend the knee and rejoin the Seven Kingdoms. I know that you would have preferred to stay Queen in the North.”

At his words, anger flared in her eyes and her mouth went thin.

“Preferred?” she purred in a voice of deadly calm. “It was my gods given right to be Queen, as heir to my trueborn brother’s kingdom.”

That was a deliberate attempt at goading him, picking at that old wound, being the bastard, the unwanted, the refuse. He ignored it best he could.

“I am the Queen’s heir…” he began, only to be cut off.

“And how you must revel in that. Finally heir to something.” She did not even try to hide her sneer, and Jon had to bite back his anger at her words.

“And you would be her heir, as well,” he said in a low, measured voice. “Not just to the North, but to all of Westeros!”

“I don’t want all of Westeros.”

They locked eyes. Jon stared long into her large blue irises, at the youth and sweetness of her face, how unfair it was to subject her to this. She glared him with such loathing he wanted her to be eleven again, for her to look at him with practiced indifference. But then he looked at her mouth, at the full curve of her lip, at her breastbone and the slope of her breasts as they rose over her corset and was very glad she was not eleven.

He could not bear the weight of her gaze and he turned away. 

“It is not a command. Merely a plea on behalf of Her Grace, the Queen. It is your choice how to respond.”

Sansa was silent for a long moment as she processed his words. Then she said, “I don’t think that’s true. I think Her Grace commanded you come here, or else you would not have done so.”

Jon looked back, but her face had not seemed to soften. 

“She may have commanded me but I will not command you. It is I that will have to answer to her.”

“Wrong again. I am her subject after all, and she her resentment of the Starks has not lessened, despite your association with her.”

Jon studied her cautiously, waiting for her to continue. But she drained her cup and stood quite suddenly to say loudly, “I fear I am fatigued and must retire. Perhaps, my lord, you would be kind enough to escort me to my chambers?”

Jon replied in the affirmative before he could think and Sansa swept over to the doors with her red braids trailing behind her like strands of fire.

The stone corridors were drafty and cold, but none so much as Sansa herself as she walked beside him, her head gracefully erect and her mouth a smooth line.

When she came to rest before her chambers, the chambers where her parents had slept so many years ago, Jon stood before her feeling like a little boy. She eyed him decisively.

“You wish to marry and reign as Lord of Winterfell. And when our beloved queen perishes as she inevitably will, you will be king and I will be your queen. Our children will reign as kings and lords of Winterfell forever after.” She said each point with finality, as though they had already happened. “It seems I have no choice but to consent.”

“But you do…”

“It would be utterly foolish of me to decline. And Her Grace is eager to truly bring the North into her control. It will be a long time before we are to recover from the war and we cannot survive autonomously. I understand that.” She wasn’t looking at him, but had her eyes fixed on some point beyond him.

“My lady…” he began.

“You used to call me Sansa,” she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes were sad.

But it felt impossible to call her Sansa now, because that had been when she was his sister and she not his sister any longer. She stood before him beautiful and alluring and untouchable. He stood before her meek and pleading and unworthy. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “I’m sorry that everything turned out this way.” He hoped he could convey to her that he didn’t just mean this situation, but the entire war and everything they both had lost.

Sansa stayed silent for a very long time. Jon was on the verge of turning to leave when she said, “Why don’t you come inside.”

He was unsure what she meant at first but then she was unlatching the door and ushering him in. Jon stood outside, filled with trepidation. She turned to look at him in the threshold, her eyes burning with the challenge, and he followed her inside.

There was already a fire blazing in the hearth and it filled the room with warmth. Jon stood awkwardly by the door as he watched Sansa in the flickering light, her hair made even brighter by the flames and a glow of artificial color washing over her face.

“You want to be my husband, don’t you?” she asked him in a matter of fact way.

Jon straightened his back and prepared to answer her like a man grown and not the frightened boy he felt like.

“I want to serve my queen faithfully and fulfill my vows,” he answered.

“I’ve had two husbands before you. Have you even bedded a girl?”

Jon prayed that his blush was not obvious. He made a jerky movement of his head that he hoped she’d recognize as a nod. Her smirk cut deeper than any words. He wanted to yell back that her first marriage had been annulled and unconsummated, but he felt like a child and held his tongue.

“I’m surprised. A man of the Night’s Watch must remain celibate, or so I’ve heard.” She surveyed him and it felt like her eyes bored into him like an awl into leather. 

She began to advance, walking toward him so that barely a hand’s length of space remained between them.

“Don’t be frightened,” she whispered, low and soft. Jon tried not to show his discomfort, but he could smell her hair and count the freckles on her nose. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

“You want to be my husband, yet you can hardly look me in the eye. Am I so intimidating?”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Jon said, trying to sound hard.

Sansa sighed and walked back to the fire to perch on the wooden chair draped in furs that sat before it.

“I want to know what’s inside you. What sort of man you truly are,” she said, sitting primly on her furs like it was a throne. “I hoped you could show me.”

Jon felt his skin prickle. She stared at him expectantly. After a long moment, Jon walked toward her. As he stood over her in her chair, she looked up at him in a way that made her seem very young. Her eyes looked wide and blue, rimmed in dainty orange lashes and the cloud of freckles on her cheeks seemed to glow in the firelight. Jon kept his eyes on her as he sank to one knee.

She reached out to cup to face. Jon pulled away at first, startled, but the contact with her dry, warm skin turned his insides to fire. Her touch was light and gentle and her fingers trailed off over his chin.

“Harry was hardly my husband,” she said in a low voice. “He performed his duties well enough, but he did not initiate me into womanhood.”

Jon did not have to think hard about who she was talking about. He heard the rumors about Lord Baelish, yet he hadn’t believed them at the time. Now he wasn’t so certain. The glint in her eyes was far from innocent. He had a sudden and vivid image of Ygritte, the red hair between her legs and the way she boldly drew him inside her. Sansa’s mouth was wet and pink, inches from his face and he ached with longing.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Sansa said without preamble, and Jon felt his heart leap into his throat. She had a long strip of worn leather in her hand and her wrapped one end around her knuckles. “But only a little. Turn around.”

Jon imagined running. He could picture himself standing up and leaving, returning to his own chambers to brood on his defeat, to assuage the burn in his groin with his own hand. She wouldn’t stop him leaving, he was sure. Instead, he kneeled fully and turned around.

She landed the first blow just below his arse on his upper thigh. He was no stranger to pain but, it made him jump. She hit him again and again, over and over, all over his arse and the back of his legs until his entire backside was burning. He stayed as still and quiet as he could, his knees in agony from kneeling on the stone floor, his back aching. When she stopped, suddenly, he fought the urge to turn around and look at her.

“Did that hurt?” she asked, her voice wavering with an emotion he couldn’t identify.

“Yes. But only a little,” he said, desperate to see the how she looked in that moment.

“Take off your breeches,” she said, her voice suddenly steady.

Jon only paused for half a heartbeat before he complied. He was half hard and he was trembling from the strain of staying still. He prayed she wouldn’t notice yet some part of him hoped that she would.

The sting of the leather was much greater on bare skin. Jon fought to control his breathing as she hit him again and again. He hadn’t been leathered since he was a boy, but this experience was entirely different. His mind was filled with what she must look like, brandishing the belt in one hand. He could picture her face flushed and pink, her mouth open and wet as she drew in breath, her breasts heaving over the tight ridge of her corset. The blows began to fall even harder and Jon could not stop himself from grunting at the pain. His flesh was on fire and each blow shot like lightning through his body.

Sansa stopped without warning. Jon did not know how much longer he could stay on his knees. He wanted to see her so badly it hurt in his gut.

“Stand up,” she said.

It took Jon a few moments to comply. His knees were stiff and aching and his spine screamed in agony as he straightened himself. 

“Turn around,” she told him.

As much he wanted to see her, he was reluctant to do so. His cock was hard and aching and there was no way to hide himself.

“I said turn around,” she ordered, her voice harder.

It was the sort of thrill born of fear and anticipation, the fierce agony of pleasure heightened with pain. Jon turned around and looked at her. Her face was tilted up to look at him, her eyes glittering in the firelight. He watched her lips part gently, feeling a reverence that was like pain.

She looked at him for what seemed like a long time. Jon felt his knees trembling, weakened by kneeling on the floor.

“Go lie on the bed,” she whispered at last. 

Jon stumbled toward that wide sumptuous bed covered in furs. The flesh on his backside was so tender that it was agony to lie upon it, no matter how soft it was. But he gingerly positioned himself in the center as he removed the rest of his clothes.

He looked at her standing by the end of the bed, her form rimmed in softly glowing firelight, her face cast in shadow. Jon felt his heart beat powerfully in his chest, his whole body burning for her. She advanced slowly and carefully, her expression impassive.

“I think you liked that,” she said.

Jon remained silent, hardly feeling capable of speech. With slow, practiced ease Sansa began to undress. Jon did not need to be told to stay still, he was frozen and mesmerized. He watched as she unbuttoned her gown and pulled it from her shoulders, letting it fall. As she tugged at her laces, loosening them one by one, her breasts pushed at the fabric, making it gape in the front. As her corset fell away, she began to unbraid her hair, letting it fall over her breasts almost modestly, her hard pink nipples poking through. She stepped out of her underthings, standing before him naked as her name day. The hair between her legs was red and damp.

Jon watched her, staying very still, his cock hard and throbbing. He was desperate to touch her, to feel her skin, to bury his hands in her hair and kiss her mouth. But he stayed still, waiting for her to move.

She climbed onto the bed and straddled his hips, positioning herself so that she didn’t touch his aching cock. Her leg brushed him as she moved, very gently and that small, accidental contact made him groan. She leaned over him, her long hair tickling his chest, her mouth glinting wetly in the gloom. Jon fought with himself not to reach out and touch her. She was so close and so warm and he remembered how he had resisted Ygritte, her body lying next to his beneath the furs, how he had warred with himself, how that struggle had made succumbing all the sweeter.

“Do you want me?” she asked, her voice low and gentle.

“Yes,” Jon bit out.

The slap seemed to come from nowhere, Jon did not have the presence of mind to prepare himself. Her palm hit him hard on his right cheek, his neck straining from the impact. He stared at her in shock, unprepared again for the second slap that landed on the opposite cheek. Jon gazed at her, his face stinging, and she tilted her head, letting the firelight illuminate her face. There was no anger, but her lips parted in passion, her eyes glowing. She slapped him again and he welcomed it.

His desire was so strong he wanted to fly at her, grab her waist and bury himself deep in her cunt. But he mastered himself, the muscles in his arms tightening as she grasped his shoulders. Her face and chest were flush with desire and she reached down to grab his cock roughly and the feeling was a bolt of lightning hitting his groin. He groaned, unable to stop himself thrusting into her hand. He felt a profound sense of familiarity as she placed him at the entrance of her cunt and sheathed him in herself.

They groaned in unison, Jon thrusting up as she took him in, throwing her head back in ecstasy. It was so intense, so immediate and powerful. Her cunt was very wet, hot and tight, and she bit her lip as she began to move. It was painfully erotic and Jon couldn’t stop himself from grasping her hips so he could thrust deeper and feel every bit of her. Her reaction was immediate, slapping him so hard he saw stars. She seized a fistful of his hair and pulled, bearing his neck to her. Jon gasped in pleasurable agony, her lips brushing the tender skin, then giving way to teeth.

It was like a game. Jon explored her body, her hips and her arse and her breasts, her neck, the curve of her mouth. Sansa retaliated fiercely, biting his neck and shoulders, sucking at his lips with bruising force, digging her nails into his back hard enough to draw blood. Jon welcomed the violence eagerly, amazed at his own reaction. His backside ached from her earlier treatment and every thrust and movement sent a surge of stinging pain over his skin. 

She felt so fragile and soft in his arms. The bones of her wrists were slender and fine, yet she held him down with an iron grip. Her teeth were white and demurely nibbling at her lip he fondled her breast, teasing her hard nipple, and she bit him viciously where his throat met his shoulder, leaving angry red marks.

It was too much. Jon could feel her writhing around him, her moans intensifying. His release tore through him, so strong that he clung to her, burying his face in her neck, feeling her heart beat wildly against his own. He wrapped his arms tight around her ribs, never wanting that feeling to end.

Sansa pulled away from him, sprawling beside him on the furs. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, a bright flush covering her whole body, her eyes closed contently. Jon watched her as his heartbeat returned to normal. His body ached, his knees and backside and his neck where she bit him. He would be covered in love bites by the morning and the thought was strange and appealing.

His thoughts were in turmoil. She had wanted to see what was inside him, to know what kind of person he was. He longed to know her thoughts, whether he had passed her bizarre test. She seemed to have fallen asleep, her lips gently parted like a kiss. But then her eyes opened: clear and blue and piercing.

“Sansa,” he began gently, finally using her name. “What should I tell the queen? Do you feel like you know what’s inside me?”

He watched as her expression changed, softening into something unrecognizable. It was a long time before she spoke.


End file.
